First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
Quercus Editions Ltd
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW
Copyright © 2014 Alice Peterson
GravitasOne font copyright © 2011 Sorkin Type Co
The moral right of Alice Peterson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
PBO ISBN 978 1 78206 183 0
EBOOK 978 1 78206 184 7
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Acknowledgements
Reader reviews for Alice Peterson
‘ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT. There’s not enough stars for this book really, it’s worth so much more than the lousy 5/5 I can offer it’ Pajama Book Girl
‘I am not totally sure if my review can describe how much I LOVED THIS BOOK’ Agi
‘I have never cried over one book so much. The story is INSPIRING, HEART-FELT, REALISTIC AND BEAUTIFULLY PORTRAYED. It was unpredictable and had me staying up to finish it … I can’t tell you how uplifting and emotional this story is but you can see for yourself’ Rachael
‘I found this book totally SPELL-BINDING and AN ABSOLUTE JOY to read. I read this book in 2 sittings, the last one ending at 3am this morning … when you are engrossed in a brilliant book, who cares what the time is! I laughed, I cried (no, sobbed) … Loved it!’ Gail
‘The book is magical – a true gift of emotions. READING IT HAS ENRICHED MY LIFE and I’ll certainly be reading more from this author’ Amanda
‘Peterson’s writing is simply brilliant, honest and frank, emotional and very touching … IT WILL STAY WITH YOU LONG AFTER YOU TURN THAT FINAL PAGE. An utterly amazing book’ Chloe
‘I would defy anyone not to FALL IN LOVE with this novel’ Fabulous Book Fiend
‘This was one of those books that was HEARTBREAKING BUT TRULY INSPIRATIONAL at the same time, I literally could not put it down and read it in a day. The story flowed effortlessly and I found myself GRIPPED ALMOST FROM THE FIRST PAGE’ Sharon
‘Made me LAUGH OUT LOUD AT PARTS AND I HAD A TEAR IN MY EYE AT OTHERS - not many authors find the right balance between serious and humor but Alice does’ Lindsay
‘Each book is totally different from the others, with diverse stories and all the books are written with DEEP COMPASSION AND UNDERSTANDING … I just loved all her books and cannot wait for the next one to be published!’ O Kleinova
‘It’s rare that you find a book that delivers HUMOUR, DRAMA, TENSION AND EMOTION IN EQUAL MEASURE – I simply could not put this book down and read it from cover to cover in a single go … In a sea of clichéd, run-of-the-mill books about modern relationships, this really cuts through with a completely different perspective’ Anon
‘Loved this book, read it in less than a day as I just COULDN’T PUT IT DOWN’ Celie
‘I LOVE ALL ALICE PETERSON BOOKS and this is no exception. She really makes the characters come to life and I recommend this book’ mommyj
‘I raced through this book. Although the subject matter is different, it TUGGED AT THE HEARTSTRINGS IN THE SAME WAY THAT JOJO MOYES’ ME BEFORE YOU DID’ SoozBuch
‘Another great read from Alice Peterson…Loved the characters and the story line. As others have said, YOU WILL LAUGH AND CRY. Couldn’t put it down and sad when I had finished it’ Anne
‘I loved this book. In fact I love Alice Peterson’s books because you relate to the people in them. They are REAL PEOPLE, WHO HAVE NORMAL LIVES, FEEL NORMAL EMOTIONS AND MAKE NORMAL DECISIONS … I did not want the book to end’ Anon
‘This was a WONDERFUL AND EMOTIONAL READ OF LOVE, LOSS AND PICKING YOURSELF UP and carrying on with the hand you’ve been given. I found Peterson’s writing was fantastic, and had me turning the pages until I reached the end. It deals with a sensitive topic with grace and empathy, and you’ll certainly be moved by Rebecca’s story. A HEART-WARMING AND TOUCHING READ’ Chloe S
‘I TOTALLY FELL IN LOVE with the characters and felt myself wishing they were my friends too’ Clara
‘I couldn’t put it down. It was funny, the WRITING WAS SUPERB and it was in parts rather sad! Alice Petersen has a real talent of describing the characters in such a detailed way that you feel you know them. I really recommend this book’ EmmaH
‘I wish I could give this book more than 5 stars!’ Miss McMahon
‘THIS MADE ME LAUGH OUT LOUD. Was very well written and felt real, like you could be friends with the characters’ Emma Mitchell
‘Really loved this book, the story was interesting and the characters were FUNNY AND ADDICTIVE. Looked forward to reading every night. A lovely story of family, friends and romance’ Louise
‘One of the MOST SPECIAL STORIES I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading … A MUST READ’ Megan Reading in the sunshine
‘The BEST BOOK I have read in a long time’ Jen
‘This book has it all. It tugs at the heart strings and is an EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER RIDE’ Sarah-Jane
Also by Alice Peterson
Another Alice
M’Coben, Place of Ghosts
You, Me and Him
Letters From my Sister
Monday to Friday Man
Ten Years On
By My Side
1
2010
‘Polly, can you tell me when you’ve felt most happy?’ my counsellor, Stephanie, asks towards the end of our session. I’ve been seeing her for over six months now. She’s sitting opposite me, dead straight hair framing her pale freckled face, pen poised in her slender hand.
‘Happy?’ I say, as if it’s an alien emotion.
‘It could be anything. Being happy doesn’t have to be the result of a momentous occasion.’
I take a sip of water. ‘I loved Dad taking Hugo and me out on the lake when we were little.’ Hugo is my younger brother. ‘We’d go out every Sunday. I liked the routine,’ I reflect. ‘School was OK too, when I wasn’t getting into trouble.’
Stephanie waits for more, her neutral expression giving nothing away. She’s always digging around in the vain hope that something will emerge from somewhere deep inside me.
‘That’s a hard question,’ I mutter. Happiness, a sense of calm, it’s always been over there, never with me. In the past I’ve always searched for excitement; thrived on thrill-seeking.
‘Take your time,’ Stephanie says, the clock behind her desk ticking.
Many people might say that their happiest moment was when they gave birth to a healthy son or daughter, or when they fell in love. I have a one-year-old son, Louis, but I’m not with Louis’s father, Matthew, anymore. I think about the first time I met Matt. Did he make me happy? Looking back, no. But he made my pulse race, especially in the early months of our relationship. I can still feel his penetrating gaze from the other side of the bar that very first night we laid eyes on one another. He had the gift of making me feel like I was the only person in the room. I see us dancing, our hot bodies pressed against one another. Then I picture us sitting side by side in the taxi later on that evening, heading back to my flat, Matt’s hand creeping up my skirt, that flirtatious look in his eye. I shiver when I see that smile, that smile that wanted to own me. I was flattered at first, intoxicated by his attention: how could any woman not be? I shift in my seat, wanting to blot him out of my mind. I wish I could stop looking over my shoulder; that his face would stop haunting me.
Go back to the question, Polly. When have I felt most happy? ‘Having Louis,’ I pretend, when I can’t think of anything else. Truthfully the birth of my son and the first year were far from how I’d imagined. I wonder if that’s the same for other mothers. I don’t regret him for a single second, but what would Stephanie think of me if I told her I’d almost walked away from him? Left him defenceless in the park? I close my eyes, not wanting to cry.
‘Polly?’ Stephanie says, ‘Don’t worry, we …’
I raise a hand to stop her, seeing myself as an eight-year-old back at my childhood home in Norfolk, in the kitchen, wearing a rosebud apron and matching chef’s hat. I see myself mixing sultanas into a creamy cookie dough with a wooden spoon. When Mum’s not looking I dip my finger into the bowl. It tastes of sweet buttery heaven. I can’t resist plunging my finger in again. ‘Polly, there won’t be any left,’ Mum ticks me off, before creeping up behind me and dipping her finger into the mixture too, laughing with me. Mum rarely laughed so when she did it felt like a prize. I loved cooking with her because it was just the two of us, no Hugo stealing the limelight, no Dad, only Mum and me. Next I see us dropping small spoonfuls of batter onto baking sheets. Mum sets the oven timer, but I can’t stop peeping through the glass door to see the biscuits rising, the edges turning a delicious golden brown.
‘Cooking,’ I mutter, still dressed in my rosebud apron, my mother by my side.
‘Cooking? You mean your job?’
Since breaking up with Matt, I now work in a café baking cakes and serving soup to the locals in Belsize Park.
I shake my head. ‘With my mother, when I was little.’ I particularly remember the weeks leading up to Christmas, making mince pies while listening to carols on the radio. I hear Mum singing along to ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ as she greased the baking tray. I inhale the comforting smell of cloves, grated nutmeg and cinnamon. I see myself carefully cutting the pastry with my silver star-shaped cutter to give the mince pies little hats. Little hats. That’s what Mum and I called them.
‘I wish my entire childhood had been spent in the kitchen cooking,’ I say to Stephanie. ‘Mum didn’t worry or frown; I stopped being naughty for a while. I think it’s why I enjoy my job so much now, it reminds me of those times.’ I take another sip of water. ‘I loved the build-up to Christmas, wrapping presents and decorating the tree with Hugo. It was all so perfect until the family actually arrived.’
Stephanie looks at me as if she can almost relate to that: the build-up to the party is often better than the party itself.
‘I remember one year … it was the year when I began to realise things at home weren’t quite as they seemed. In fact, things were a mess, our family was one big lie.’ I stop, glance at the time. My hour is up.
‘Tell me more, Polly. We’ve still got a little time left,’ she says, ignoring the sound of the ticking clock.
2
1989
My name is Polly and I’m nine years old. It’s Christmas Eve and Mum is frantically searching my wardrobe. ‘I don’t know what you do with your things, Polly!’ She’s looking for my red velvet dress. I know exactly where it is. It’s hidden under my bed, torn and caked in dry mud.
In the end we agree that I wear my silver star-patterned skirt for the family party tonight, and I breathe a sigh of relief when finally she leaves my bedroom. Quietly I shut my door and crouch down beside my bed to pull out my dress. I’d forgotten all about it being there until now. On the last day of term it was non-school-uniform day and I’d had a fight in the sports field, close to the girls’ loos, with one of the girls in my class. Imogen loves to mimic my younger brother Hugo, calling him ‘Cyclops’, because he’s blind. She had two friends with her, laughing as she pulled cross-eyed faces, imitating Hugo squinting. I charged towards her, like a bull, before both of us went into the mud. We wrestled and fought to lots of cheering until I heard my dress rip and felt a hand trying to pull me up. It was Janey, my best friend, begging me not to get into trouble again.
‘Anyway, Cyclops is a superhero,’ she said to Imogen, ‘and Hugo has two eyes, not one, stupid.’
I put on my skirt and blouse, wondering how I can get the dress clean and fix it without Mum noticing.
I hear footsteps approaching my bedroom. I shove the dress back underneath the bed. I’m relieved when Hugo pokes his head round the door. Hugo is six, and almost as tall as me.
‘Are you coming?’ he asks. He’s dressed in a dark purple waistcoat, smart trousers and Dad has polished his shoes.
I take Hugo’s chubby hand and together we walk downstairs. Mum and Dad explained why my brother is partially sighted. When he was born, he couldn’t breathe so was put onto an oxygen machine. The doctor said the rods and cones in his eyes were killed at birth.
‘Cones?’ I’d said to Dad. All I could see was Mr Whippy ice cream with chocolate flakes.
Dad tried to explain. ‘Hugo has … how can I put it? Faulty wiring. Sometimes there can be problems at birth, but it doesn’t mean we don’t love him just the way he is.’
‘So my birth wasn’t difficult?’
There was a long pause. I don’t think he answered. He was probably still thinking about Hugo’s rods and cones.
As Hugo and I almost reach the bottom of the stairs, ‘No more steps,’ I say, with one to go. He steps forward and I grab him before he can fall. ‘Not funny, Polly!’ But we both giggle because Christmas Day and opening presents is only one day away now.
*
Granny Sue and Granddad Arthur, Mum’s parents, always come round on Christmas Eve. They live in Devon, in a cottage by the sea. Dad’s sister, Lyn, is also coming. Auntie Lyn is widowed and lives on her own in London. Tonight, for the first time ever, Mum is allowing me to stay up until at least nine. Normally Hugo and I are packed off to bed before they even sit down to dinner.
The doorbell rings, three times. That’ll be Granddad.
‘Now the party has begun!’ he says as I open the door and throw my arms around him. He’s wearing a navy spotted tie and smells of bonfires and aftershave. Granny Sue pushes past us in a long stylish coat, scarlet lipstick and high heels, carrying a plate of food. Granny Sue used to be blonde and glam
orous, I’ve seen pictures of her when she was young. Dad says she still is goodlooking. She used to be a professional cook. Granny Sue’s hands are famous because she’s been on adverts carving turkey. Dad says they were a handsome couple in their day, Granddad Arthur and Granny Sue. People wanted to be like them.
Hugo and I follow Granddad into the sitting room, eyeing the bulging bag that clinks by his side. Granddad remarks on the twinkling lights in our Christmas tree and all those presents stacked in piles underneath it. ‘All for me!’ he beams at us, before slipping off his coat and telling us nothing beats a real log fire. I watch as he sits down and takes a couple of bottles out of his bag. Aware of my gaze he winks at me. ‘No presents for you, Polly! I hear you’ve been a very naughty girl this year.’
He roars with laughter, before presenting me with a small box wrapped in silver paper that immediately I shake before adding to my pile.
Mum’s right. Granddad can’t talk; he shouts. He can’t laugh; he roars. He can’t ring the doorbell once; he has to ring it three times. He’s like a giant ray of sunshine appearing on our doorstep.
*
Auntie Lyn arrives next, and Granddad almost crushes her in his embrace. She’s wearing a spotty red dress with her famous beige tights. Since she lost her husband she doesn’t smile that much, not even at Christmas.
Soon we’re all in the sitting room chatting about school and stuff. I’m telling Auntie Lyn about my nativity play, but Mum interrupts me, ‘Hugo sang a wonderful solo too. He played the Mad Hatter.’
‘How about a little music now to get the party going?’ suggests Granddad. Dejected, I follow him into the hallway, towards our music machine on a shelf stacked with CDs. I help Granddad find some music and soon my good mood returns as he twirls me round the room to Johnny Cash’s ‘Ring of Fire’. Hugo dances with Mum, in between pretending to play the guitar. My father takes a couple of photographs. ‘Come on, Lynny, it’s Christmas! Let your hair down!’
‘Best not,’ she says, shrinking further away from him. Sometimes I think she’s scared of Granddad. I don’t know why when he’s so much fun.
*
I sit at the table, next to Granny Sue and opposite Granddad Arthur. Dad lights the candles and Granny Sue compliments the table that Mum and I decorated earlier this afternoon, after we’d made the mince pies listening to the carols on the radio. Hugo and Dad were busy watching It’s a Wonderful Life while Mum and I were opening boxes filled with beautiful glass candlesticks, gold candles, ivy, berry and ribbon decorations and our special red star-patterned tablecloth with matching napkins. I made some place names using my gold marker pen. Mum also bought some crackers, but we’re saving those for tomorrow.
One Step Closer to You Page 1